Adnaw stretches in a long slow manner, her sinuous body elongated to it's fullest extent, as muscles tensed and moved under her skin. She stretches further still until she hears the pop-pop-pop of her spine cracking and settling. She twists and then shakes her arms and hands. She must stay awake.

So much to do-so much to worry about. The young woman gazed at her reflection in the still water as the moon illuminated the pool. Her axe clicked away upon her task, she counted each hack as it seperated cartilage and joints. "How many more will she do? How many had she done" She had lost count. The smell of smoking herb driffted to her nose and she could see the men gathered around Bom'bays pot, deep in their serious male discussion. The men occasionally laughed, but none so piercing as Bom'bays shrieking cackle. Adnaw hacked hard into the next bit, getting a meaty sloshing sound she felt satisfied in hearing it, wishing she too could talk with the men. Although she could guess that she knew what they were talking about, it would be what everyone was speaking on, tomorrow. The meeting. Her back stiffend again and the hackles on the back of her neck rose, a new group was arriving, she knew it, she wonderd what tribe would be represented this time. Many of the tents she stayed away from, no good could come from the dangerous smells and sounds that eminated from the Vilebranch camp, or the odd markings she saw around the Frostmane camp.

She looked around at the other women as they prepared for the feasting. Some stirring pots, others like her buthering hte latest raid. She lifted one hand to wipe the sweat fro her forhead and take a deep breath of the stifiling night air. As her moves along her brow she leaves a bloody smear upon her face.

She lifts the small pale arm from the body with one deft hacking motion and tosses it into a nearby pot.. . .

What will they say after tomorrow is done?

She eyes the men and returns to work.. . . . .
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Xicotl gulps the raw morning air, ther throat sore and dry from the heat and dust that cling to the air like a cloak. Durotar would never be a home for her, she longed for moss and wood around her, the comforts of home.

She places her instruments before her one by one on the baking sand trying to avoid touching it in fear of being burned. How did these trolls live without shade? How was it that Shadra could allow such a place to exist? Why did she not protect this land with her silken web from the tortures of the sun. What had this land done to deserve such punishment?

Priestess Hexx would want this done right she thinks to herself as she fashions a voodoo doll. She would have to be ready and prepared with many items, to be able to create the likeness of the messenger. It would be hardest she assumes to get something personal from the messenger, a piece of hair, a scrap of cloth, although best would be blood. Hexx would be able to watch then high a-top Jintha'alor and know the intentions of this message. Once this doll was made.

Xicotl gulps the air again, she wonders what will become of all of this.